


Chemical Bonding

by deathfrisbeeofbakerstreet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Drug Use, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Masturbation, Porn With Plot, Prompt Fic, Teen Sherlock, Teenlock, Top John Watson, Tutoring, bottomlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1344661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathfrisbeeofbakerstreet/pseuds/deathfrisbeeofbakerstreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>17 year old John Watson, straight-edge rugby star of his school, needs a chemistry tutor. Enter 16 year old Sherlock Holmes. Cocky, brilliant, and distractingly gorgeous. Sherlock has a few choice illicit vices. John soon discovers an addiction of his own: boy geniuses by the name of Sherlock.</p><p>A prompt fic. Less story and more an excuse to write sexy-times. Dedicated to the lovely <a href="http://shootbadcabbies.tumblr.com/">shootbadcabbies</a>, who provided the prompt: "teenlock getting high together leading to some explicit things (preferably bottomlock things)" </p><p>How could I NOT write that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **"A moth to a flame. The object of its desire and its undoing, one in the same."**

"John, I'm sorry, but you might have to miss rugby practice once in a while. You've _got_ to pass chemistry." 

John grimaced, rubbing his eyes frustratedly. "Alright, mum."

"Mrs. Stamford at the office says her boy gets tutored by this young man and he's very sharp. Bit of a prodigy, apparently."

"Mhm." John only half-listened now.

"16 and already a first year in Uni," she marveled, setting the kettle to boil.

"Oh great," John mumbled. The guy would probably think himself better than John. Tutoring someone a year older than himself _and_ already in Uni.

"You're meeting him at the library tomorrow after school. Take the tube straight there. Don't mess about."

"Alright, mum," John sighed. _Just great._

\---

"Sherlock Holmes," said the much taller, dark and unruly-haired boy as he flicked his cigarette. 

John shook his hand. "John Watson. So, shall we?" He indicated to the entrance of the library.

"God, no. Libraries are dull. And I can't smoke. Let's go to the park."

"The park? Why did we meet here, then?" John studied him curiously.

"I could tell over the phone your mother expected a traditional study setting. She might not have hired me on, otherwise. Rules and formalities with her, isn't it?" Sherlock began taking long strides towards the park.

"You could tell that over the phone?" It was true, of course. But how the hell could he know that?

"Come on, John," Sherlock called over his shoulder. John gripped his books to his chest, sprinting to catch up.

"Are you a proper tutor? You don't even have any books."

Sherlock turned on his heel to John, walking backwards with an arrogant grin. "You're the one who needs tutoring, not me."

John supposed he should be offended, but it was the truth, of course. "So, you just know everything about chemistry? You won't need to look up _any_ thing?" John quipped.

Sherlock only smirked, flicked his cigarette, and turned his back to John to walk properly again. They continued in silence the remaining few blocks, John following behind as Sherlock led the way.

At the park, John and Sherlock sat beneath a tree. Sherlock leaned casually against the trunk, one knee bent to his chest, and continued smoking as John flipped through his book and papers to find his latest notes. 

"Ah, here's my last test. Didn't do so well." 

Sherlock took the papers from John and studied them briefly. "I'd say not."

John pursed his lips in annoyance, waiting for a bit more than that.

After a moment, Sherlock whipped out a pen and scribbled on the pages of the test, correcting John's work, and then handed them back abruptly. "Well, you're clearly not a _complete_ idiot." 

"Uh, thanks, I guess?" John looked over his papers at the boy's scrawling notes, slowly piecing together his mistakes.

"Biology is your subject, isn't it?" Sherlock leaned his head back, resting his crown against the tree and exposing his long, pale neck. 

"You can tell?" John said, distractedly.

"Mmm." Sherlock took one last, luxurious drag from his cigarette. 

John watched the muscles of his throat play under his skin, freckles on his neck jumping. 

"You've done well with the work that overlaps with biological concepts." Sherlock flicked the cigarette butt away. "Also, I think it's your at-home studying methods that need adjustment. You seem to remember all the concepts but have a hard time with application. I imagine you're more hands-on, and less books."

"You got all that from one test?" John looked at him dubiously. "Who are you? And how do you know about my mum?"

"Your mother introduced herself as 'Mrs. Watson', no first name given. She's quite formal. Her first question was regarding my own mother, wanted to speak with her directly. She then inquired about _where_ we'd be studying. She never even asked about my fee. Most people ask that first thing. Can't be because you're wealthy, no offense, but those are clearly second-hand clothes. Been patched and stitched up more than once, I see. Old fashioned, then, doesn't like to discuss money or haggle and wanted to get to know my mother beforehand." Sherlock stopped for a breath, flipping through John's notes and homework as he continued. "I take it your father's not in the picture, but you've got an older sister. Your shoes quite worn and faded but were clearly a young female's. Second hand from your sister, not a father or brother. Also, your mother asked about _my_ father. I gather she's looking not just for a tutor but for a positive male influence. Bit odd since I'm younger than you, granted, but I'm in University, so she thinks I'm more mature than your other friends. Rugby mates, no doubt."

John gaped at Sherlock. All true, so far. "How did you know about the rugby?"

"You're athletic, in good shape, bit of a limp from a recent injury, some bruising around the knees, and a tan face and legs, just above where long rugby socks would normally fall." Sherlock shrugged as if that had been perfectly obvious. 

"That...was...amazing," John beamed. And it was, he thought. He was a bit mad, but maybe a genius.

For all the boy's arrogance, Sherlock seemed surprised at the compliment and mildly unnerved. "You think so?"

"Yeah, course." 

Sherlock collated the papers in his lap, organizing them uncomfortably. "That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

John burst into giggles and Sherlock rewarded him with a small, demure smile. 

The rest of the session breezed by and John was completely enraptured. Sherlock chain-smoked and reviewed John's work with him and occasionally stopped to deduce something about a passerby, to John's absolute delight. And Sherlock seemed to enjoy deducing for John. He was enthusiastic, animated even, as if no one ever gave him the opportunity to share this odd, but brilliant talent. And oh, how Sherlock was brilliant. The boy could recall facts as if reading directly from the book. And not just about chemistry. It appeared Sherlock had a vast knowledge about a variety of other subjects. Sherlock tutored, teased, charmed, insulted, and, John thought, maybe even flirted. He was infectious. And John was hooked. Addicted. After what felt like only a short time, the sun had set on the park, and John realized he'd spent almost 5 hours with this beautifully mad, impassioned genius. 

"Jesus. I had no idea the time. Shit." John stood, collecting his things. "Didn't mean to keep you." They were only meant to be an hour.

"It's fine. I may have gotten a little carried away." Sherlock admitted and picked up John's book, holding it out.

"Ta," John said gratefully and clasped the book. His fingers brushed Sherlock's and he held them there a pause before taking the book in his own arms. "Well. Right. Guess you won't want to be seeing me again this week since I've overstayed my welcome." John chuckled, though he felt a small pang of disappointment. "Mum may not have asked about your fee, but I doubt she can afford 5 hour sessions like this all the time."

"She can just pay for an hour." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. 

"How will you ever make any money that way?"

"I don't care about money. Well, I do a bit. But I don't _need it_. Tomorrow, then?"

"Well, I've got rugby practice after school."

"Ah, I see. Some other time, then, perhaps. You can simply call -"

"How about after? If that's not too late for you," John interjected. It occurred to him he wanted very much to see Sherlock again soon. The boy was irritatingly magnetic.

"I can meet you at your school." 

"Perfect." 

\---

"John, I was worried sick. Where were you?" Their mother had been pacing frantically for an hour, according to Harry.

"Sorry, mum. We just got caught up. I didn't realize the time," John admitted.

It was true, of course, but upon reflection, they may have spent as much time messing about as they did actual school work. John didn't mind, though. Best afternoon he'd had in quite some time. 

"Well, I'm just glad you're alright. How was it? Is he going to straighten you out?"

John thought about the freckles on Sherlock's neck. The way his curls rested against his forehead and blew wildly in the wind. His absurd cheekbones and the color of his eyes, a sort of indescribable color, really. His odd combination of arrogance, brilliance, and insecurity. The bow of those pink lips. 

_Sigh._ "Straighten" might have been the last thing on earth Sherlock Holmes did for John Watson.

"Yeah, mum. He's great," John smiled. 

And it wasn't a lie.

\---

Sherlock arrived at John's school early to catch the end of his rugby practice. He loomed about far enough out of sight so as not to draw attention to himself, but still close enough to watch John. There was something indiscernible about John that drew Sherlock in. 

A moth to a flame. The object of its desire and its undoing, one in the same. 

He lit a cigarette as John ran up the field, muscled thighs accented by tiny, bright shorts. Socks pulled high just below the knees. He was gleaming with sweat and his blonde hair reflected the sunlight in a distracting way.

Sherlock blew out smoke into the sky and wondered just what in the hell he was doing here.

Practice ended and John horsed around a bit with some of the players, laughing and joking before leaving the field. He grabbed a bottle of water and gulped deeply a few times before dumping the remainder on his hair and face, cooling his reddened cheeks and further dampening his already glistening skin. He ran his hands through his blonde locks, tousling them messily. Golden chaos atop blue eyes. 

Sherlock, who was simply trying to make himself known and certainly not just hoping for a better view, started towards John. 

"Sherlock!" John waved, picking up the pace and jogging to him.

Sherlock smiled at the vision before him. So different from the clean-cut, groomed boy of yesterday. John was dirty, a bit bloodied around the knees, red-faced, and absolutely exhilarated. His adrenaline was running high and the physiological manifestations were breathtaking. 

It occurred to Sherlock that he liked John filthy.

"Hello, John."

"Catch the game, at all?" John smiled, then scrubbed his face with a flannel.

"I'm afraid not. Rugby's not really my area."

"I dunno what your area is," John chuckled. "You seem to have plenty of areas. Shall I introduce you?" John smiled, indicating to his teammates who were still hanging about the field, roughhousing and teasing each other.

Sherlock hesitated, swallowing uncomfortably. "Ah. No, it's fine." 

John gave him a puzzled look and then raised his eyebrows in concession. "Alright, then."

Sherlock took a drag on his cigarette as he and John began walking toward the school.

"I'd say those things will stunt your growth, or kill ya, but I gather you don't worry about that sort of thing."

"Hardly worried about my growth, I'm taller than _you_ and younger," Sherlock quipped, tight-lipped around his cigarette.

"Fair enough," John laughed. "Whoo. I need a shower, if you don't mind. I can't make you sit near me like this."

John rounded the corner and headed inside a locker room. Sherlock flicked his cigarette out and followed suit.

John made quick work of ridding himself of his clothes and Sherlock had not expected that. A flash of pale white and tan. Sherlock turned his back toward John quickly. Of course, John was accustomed to undressing in front of his teammates, so he supposed that was to be anticipated. 

The shower knobs squeaked behind Sherlock and the sound of rushing water filled the silence of the room. The tantalizing musk of John was soon replaced with a fruity aroma of... was that strawberries? More of his sister's things. John hummed cheerfully and steam fogged the nearby mirrors. Sherlock leaned against a locker, studying the room and diligently cataloging the sound of John's voice. Bit of an adrenaline junkie, he wagered mentally and smirked. _Interesting._

"So, Sherlock?" John paused his humming.

"Mmm?" Sherlock's eyes flicked to John. His view was partially obstructed by the shower wall, but Sherlock could see the top half of his body. John stood under the falling water, rinsing shampoo from his hair. The muscles of his back shifted, stretching his skin gracefully. Sherlock considered the direction of the water flow over the planes of John's scapula, trapezius, down the long line of vertebra.

"I've got a test in two weeks. Think I'll be ready?" The water shut off.

"I expect you will." John was smarter than most of the idiots Sherlock knew. He just required a different study method than his current one.

"Fantastic." John reached for the flannel draped over the shower wall. 

John stepped out before Sherlock, hair dripping, the small white flannel about his trim waist. Picturesque health and youth and vibrancy. Well-muscled for his age, but not overly so. He didn't spend long hours at the gym. No, John Watson ran and jumped and played and cultivated his body in the world, not in front of a mirror. He wasn't concerned with appearances, but rather with activities and enjoyment and feeling alive. Scars, new and old, and bruises decorated his form, each telling the story of John. John, who actually spoke to Sherlock and liked his company. Who laughed with him and encouraged his deductions, not as some sort of party trick, but in genuine fascination. John who wore every thought and emotion on his face, so expressive. 

John, who was watching Sherlock watch him at this very moment and didn't flinch under the scrutiny. In fact, Sherlock realized, it was welcome. John's pupils dilated when their eyes met, his breathing controlled, purposely so.

Sherlock broke first, clearing his throat. "Cigarette," he waved his hand toward the door and made his exit.

Outside, Sherlock lit a cigarette, his hand twitching slightly, and tried to calm himself. He was half hard from the penetration of John's gaze. How he loved towering above the smaller, slick, mostly nude boy who looked at him with such carnality and admiration and trust, after only a short time. A few minutes passed and John rounded the corner, hair mostly dry and neat, dressed in a navy, white, and burgundy check button down and jeans. 

It occurred to Sherlock he liked John clean as well.

"Shall we?" And perfectly perfect, unflappable John Watson smiled as if they had not just exchanged lustful glances in an empty locker room. "There's a bench in the garden -"

"I thought we'd have some practical experience," Sherlock interjected.

"Okay, how?" 

"Take me to your chemistry lab."

"School's closed." 

Sherlock gave John a withering look.

"Alright, alright." John threw up his palms in defense. "Should have guessed you knew that."

John led the way toward the science building. "Do you smoke cigarettes _all day?_ " he chastised.

"Of course not," Sherlock said between puffs. "Cigarettes get boring after a while. Have to change it up."

John frowned. "How?" He stopped at the entrance of the building.

"I dabble in other substances." Sherlock dug inside his pocket and retrieved a lock pick.

"Drugs," John supplied, only a hint of disbelief.

"You're on sparkling form," Sherlock rejoined, twisting the pick carefully.

"Ha bloody ha. You've got a lock pick?" 

"Shut up, John. I'm concentrating."

The lock clicked and Sherlock swung the door open dramatically, entering the building without looking back at John. When Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at his shorter companion, John's chest was puffed, he was walking briskly, almost a soldierly march, and an impish smile adorned his face. He was excited. He loved the thrill of sneaking in somewhere. Yes, definitely an adrenaline junkie.

Eventually John led them to an empty lab and Sherlock wasted no time gathering equipment and materials. They worked on John's weak areas, Sherlock paying special attention to his learning style so as to adjust his teaching methods accordingly. They were a well oiled machine by the end of the lesson. Sherlock and John: a picture of synchronicity in the lab. John was an eager student and Sherlock, admittedly, enjoyed tutoring him. Felt comfortable with him. John would smile at him, laugh with him, joke with him like no one did. He wasn't a "freak" or a "weirdo" to John. In less than two days, Sherlock felt he had his first friend after 16 years of no real companionship outside his own family. 

A couple of hours passed and John closed his book with finality, beaming at Sherlock. "I think I'm getting the hang of this."

Sherlock raised a cocky eyebrow and smirked. "Oh really?"

"Definitely. I mean, I'm not _you._ " John winked, still grinning. 

Sherlock huffed a breath of a laugh, flattered and a bit uncomfortable with the praise. 

"What's that all about?" John looked at him, dubious.

"Sorry?"

"That. You're a bloody genius and yet you act like you don't know it. Of course, I _know_ you do. You've informed me plenty of times in the past two days that I'm an idiot."

Sherlock blinked a few times, his brain seeking out a response and coming up with nothing.

"Must be shit." John's eyes softened. "Younger and smarter than everyone else in Uni. Socially inept. Must get lonely."

Sherlock frowned, tried to look offended, and failed. John wasn't wrong.

"And every time I pay you the least little compliment, it's like no one else has ever done as much." 

Perhaps John was more clever than he previously credited. Sherlock's eyes settled on his own feet and he reached in his pocket for another cigarette. John grabbed Sherlock's hand and held it.

"Come on, you. You're going to give _me_ bloody lung cancer at this rate. Let's go." Sherlock dropped the pack back in his pocket and John tugged him along out of the room, dropping his hand just outside the door.

Once downstairs, Sherlock refastened the lock to the building. The two boys stood in awkward silence, each reaching for an excuse not to leave. For another moment together. 

"I suppose you won't be needing me until closer to your test," Sherlock announced at last.

"No. Right. I suppose not." 

"Well, two weeks then?" Sherlock felt a bit glum. John really had grasped everything Sherlock had thrown at him the last two days. Just needed a different perspective, apparently. 

"Two weeks. Yes. But, Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"Do you want to... do... something? Tomorrow's Friday. There's a party I've been invited to. Might be a laugh."

Sherlock perked up a bit. John wanted to see him. And not just for tutoring. But... a party? That sounded dreadful. Sherlock wavered, unsure how to respond immediately. If he didn't go along, would John still want to see him?

"Doesn't have to be a party," John smiled. "People... not really your cup of tea?"

"I'm not really anyone else's cup of tea," Sherlock admitted, which elicited a doleful expression from John.

"Well, we'll do something else, then. What do you usually do on a Friday?"

Sherlock hardly thought John would want to get high with him, but that was _indeed_ his activity of choice on the weekends. Could be fun, he smirked internally. John Watson, straight and narrow, rugby star, well-liked, losing himself with Sherlock to something a little darker, a little more thrilling. _Hmm._ Actually, John might enjoy himself. 

"Doubt you're up for it," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and tried to appear nonchalant.

"Up for what?" John's interested was piqued.

"No, no. You're far too..."

"Too what? Oh what? A bit of weed? Come on, I can handle that." 

_Perceptive, indeed._

"No, not 'a bit of weed'," Sherlock mimicked. 

John furrowed his brow. Sherlock could study the expressiveness of John Watson all day.

"MDMA," Sherlock supplied at last.

John stiffened a bit. "Ecstasy?"

"As I said, not up for it." 

"Alright, then." John's eyes dared Sherlock. 

Sherlock raised a curious brow. "Really?"

"Definitely," John grinned. 

Sherlock noted once again the dilation of John's pupils. _He does love a challenge._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For purposes of this story, I've narrowed the age gap between John and Sherlock, as I believe canonically it is greater than what I'm writing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **"I've never met anyone who shines as bright."**

John's classes dragged on laboriously the next day. The hours until he met up with Sherlock seemed to grow rather than diminish. It was odd, the pull Sherlock had on him after only two days. John had always been a bit bored with life. Sport had been the only stimulation he could find to manage the boredom. Girls were great, and he had dated a few, but none really kept his attention. They never challenged him or seemed to have any opinions of their own - at least not the ones he'd been with. His friends as well. They were good blokes, but he'd never forged any relationship that he could imagine keeping after graduation. 

Enter Sherlock Holmes. An unexpected variable in the equation of John's world. Unlike anyone John knew and, he imagined, unlike anyone he would _ever_ meet. John thought about their moment in the locker room yesterday. Sherlock had looked at John dripping wet in his flannel as if he were studying him. _Learning_ John's body. Hell, maybe he was. It had been arousing and John thanked whatever god there might be that Sherlock had left for a fag when he did. John's cock had begun to swell under Sherlock's unabashed staring and threatened to knock the flannel right off his hips. 

And if he hadn't gone for a smoke? If Sherlock _had_ touched him? Kissed him? John had been with a couple of girls, but never another boy. And yet, there in that locker room, Sherlock Holmes could have asked anything he wanted of John and he might not have hesitated. Could he be attracted to just one specific boy and not be gay? John really had no clue and wasn't entirely sure it mattered. Harry had been with girls. He knew it, but didn't let on. Mum would not be happy to find out.

Finally dismissed from his last class, John raced to the tube to catch a ride to Baker Street. Sherlock said there was an empty flat where they could stay the night. 

John had asked if it was dangerous. Sherlock just winked and said, "Not really. But you wish, don't you?"

Damn he was good.

\---

The place was nice, thought John. Sherlock had already picked the lock by the time he arrived and was waiting at the foot of the stairs just inside. 

"So, how do you know about this?"

"Part of the job, John. Need to know a good bolt-hole anywhere in the city."

"Tutoring requires that?"

"No. Different job."

"You've got a second job?"

"Not yet."

"Go on, then," John prodded. 

"Consulting detective," declared Sherlock with an air of pride.

"Detective?"

" _Consulting_ detective. The only one in the world. I'm inventing the job."

John chuckled, shaking his head.

"Problem?"

"No. Just. Inventing your _own_ job. I can see you doing that," John smiled earnestly. "So, no one lives here? There's all this stuff." 

"Three flats, all owned by the Hudsons. Newlyweds. Recently moved to Florida. Don't think it'll last, though."

"Really, why not?"

"Husband's no good. Up to something dodgy. He's keeping this place like some sort of safe house in his wife's name. She doesn't know it, but he has no intention of selling it.

"That's why they haven't sent for their stuff, then?" 

"Exactly. He'll just buy all new things over there, tell her he's sold off everything in London."

"So why don't you tell her? The wife?" John looked at him in concern.

Sherlock frowned, walking up the stairs. "Because, John. People don't believe that a _child_ could be smarter than an adult. My opinion doesn't count for much," he spat angrily.

John felt he was missing some subtext there, but let it go. 

"Besides," Sherlock grinned fondly from atop the stairs, "that wife is tougher and smarter than she looks. She'll be alright."

The upstairs flat, unit B, was Sherlock's favorite of the three. Tall windows overlooking the street below, good size, high ceilings, fireplace, open floorplan. Not much in the way of furniture, but a couple of decent chairs and a sofa were there. 

"So, you always come here on Friday nights?"

"No, different places. But this one. This one I like," Sherlock half-smiled. 

"So..." John trailed off, flopping in one of the chairs near the fireplace. What was the appropriate way about doing this? Did they have dinner in a stranger's flat and then down some pills? 

"Don't worry, I'm an excellent chemist. The batch is safe. I tested it personally." Sherlock dropped a tiny pill in John's hand and he examined it. The pill was white with a skull engraving. Smaller than he expected.

"Should we... do we eat or something?"

"No. It's fine on an empty stomach, but there's water and orange squash in the kitchen. Best to keep hydrated."

John was hesitant. He stared at the pill for a moment, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

"It's alright if you don't want to." Sherlock crouched in front of him and placed a hand on John's knee. "Honestly."

"What's it like? The feeling."

"It's called ecstasy for a reason. It's euphoric. You'll be social, want to have long and meaningful chats. Want to touch and be touched." Sherlock glanced at his own hand on John's knee. "Dance too, probably. We'll put on music, light candles. You'll lose yourself in sensations, sounds, lights. The happiest you might ever feel." There was a despondency in Sherlock's eyes at the end that John almost couldn't bear. 

"Alright. I trust you," John smiled. And for some reason, he really did. 

"Cheers." 

And together they took their medicine.

\---

The ascent, as Sherlock preferred to call it, was a gentle upward slope into elation. With each passing minute, the edges softened. Peace and contentment rolled over them in waves. John and Sherlock talked for a long while, each divulging about their lives. John sat cross-legged in a chair near the fireplace. Sherlock bundled up on the floor in front of him, hugging his knees to his chest. John told Sherlock about his mum and Harry and his childhood. About rugby and his friends and girlfriends and his disconnect with all of it. About his desire for a life less ordinary. He wanted something that mattered and excited and made him feel alive. He was going to medical school, wanted to be a surgeon, but John said he couldn't help believe there was something more out there for him. He didn't know what it was exactly, but wanted it, needed it.

Sherlock hung on every word. He adored this bit. The mellow climb to the apex of the high. And sharing it with someone he found fascinating was unimaginably comforting. He'd never been so close to anyone before. Sherlock talked about his brother and parents. His schooling and how he and Mycroft were pariahs. Sherlock even opened up about Carl Powers, the unsolved murder that haunted him, knowing the morons at Scotland Yard wouldn't listen. He was too young to be taken seriously. Sherlock hated it. He hated being different. He was too smart to be accepted by his peers and too young to be accepted by adults. His brain was a burden. John looked at him with pitying eyes and Sherlock almost couldn't stand it. Sherlock didn't want pity. He only wanted John to understand why their blossoming friendship _mattered._

They poked around the flat, the state of their enlightenment increasing still. They rummaged through books together, Sherlock waxing philosophy and science, summarizing for John contents of the books he'd read in the past. Books he thought John would enjoy. John stood closely, casual brushes of skin and clothing. Personal space was not something one longed for on ecstasy. Closeness, in every sense of the word, was the endgame. And Sherlock was eager for that.

It wasn't terribly long before the effects of the drug peaked and now came the hours of plateau. It had been a slow burn, progressive and gorgeous. And John. John was gorgeous as well. His blue eyes had darkened, pupils blown wide. He sat close to Sherlock on the sofa, the sides of their bodies flush. Sherlock propped his feet on the table, and John followed suit, crossing a leg over Sherlock's.

"This is brilliant," John confided. "Though not as brilliant as you," he nudged Sherlock softly.

Sherlock smiled affectionately. Even the small nudge of John's shoulder was blissful. Any physical contact was pleasing.

"Everything feels _so_ good. This sofa," John leaned his head backward, "you, the draft from the window, even taking a really deep breath. Does that make sense?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied. He understood completely. Sherlock was not one for a lot of touching normally, but this, this was when he really enjoyed it. It's why he rarely partook of MDMA over other drugs. He was generally alone. On ecstasy, it was the only time he'd go to a dance club, just to be a bit social. But this, here with John. This was perfect. Just them and whatever nonsense John had the radio on. The song didn't matter, it was the vibrations, the sounds, the thumping and the beating. It made his organs dance inside him, inadvertently swaying the rest of his body like a mere appendage.

John lolled his head to the side and stared at Sherlock. Sherlock leaned his head back and matched his stare. 

"What is it about you, Sherlock Holmes?" John inquired, almost dreamily. "I've known you all of two days and look at this. We just... we _connect_. Don't we? It's like I've always known you."

Had Sherlock been entirely himself, he might have been embarrassed. Instead, he grabbed John's hand and drew small circles on his palm and confessed, "we do seem to be connected, don't we? Honestly, John. There's no one else that understands me. Or likes me. No one else that sees me." Even in his flighty state, Sherlock could rationalize somewhere deep within that he was being a bit sentimental. But he couldn't be arsed to care. He was enjoying his high and his John Watson.

"They are blind if they can't see you. I've never met anyone who shines as bright." 

John spoke so easily with him like this. Sherlock wanted to kiss him, but he didn't want to stifle a single word that mouth might form. John's tongue darted out and grazed his bottom lip and Sherlock thought he'd very much like to know that clever tongue more intimately.

"Here, you'll like this," Sherlock slid over to make space on the sofa. John laid back, the weight and warmth of his head now on Sherlock's lap. He ran long, pale fingers through John's silky locks and scratched nails softly on his scalp. Sherlock was familiar with many different ways to heighten their experience and, knowing it was John's first time, he wanted it to be unforgettable. John let out an audible moan and arched his neck, head pressing into Sherlock's lap and fingers, wanting more. More feeling. More sensation.

"That's good," John smiled, his eyes closed.

"Yes, I know."

"You always know."

Sherlock chuckled at the retort and rewarded him by increasing the pressure of his nails on John's scalp.

"Mmm." Another little moan. Music to Sherlock's ears. "Now you," said John.

"No," Sherlock said lazily. "I like these noises you're making."

John opened an eye up at Sherlock, an impish grin on his face. "Git."

Sherlock closed his fists in John's hair and tugged playfully, teasingly. A bit of force, but not painful.

"Mmm, Christ. Why does that feel so good?" 

John ran his hand over his own torso, lavishing in the texture of his clothes against his stomach. Sherlock watched with fascination. The pleasure on John's face, the way he rubbed himself, writhing under his own touch. It was almost masturbatory. Sherlock had never seen such unashamed displays. He wondered if he personally could incite such amorous gratuity from John.

"So, Mr. Holmes. A consulting detective." John's foot tapped along with the beat on the radio. "What exactly will that entail?"

Sherlock kept one hand in John's hair and trailed the other down his neck. John leaned into the touch instantly. Sherlock traced John's clavicle, fingers drifting lower to trickle over his chest, only the thin fabric of John's shirt separating them.

"I'll solve crimes that Scotland Yard can't handle, which should be plenty. Take on private clients as well. Only the most interesting cases, of course."

"Course," mimicked John. 

He groaned as Sherlock dragged nails up his chest slowly. John arched his body and tipped his head back, exposing more of his neck. Sherlock wanted to lean down and kiss it. Taste John. Suck a love bite into his skin, leaving another bruise on that beautiful, fit body. Another part of John's story. A mark, uniquely Sherlock's.

"Come on," John stood up. "Your hair looks so soft. And you have to feel this, it's amazing."

"But you haven't got the view I do. You'd understand, otherwise," Sherlock smirked as John bit his lip bashfully. John was indeed a sight to behold.

Sherlock wouldn't normally be so forward, but the pill had a way of thwarting inhibition. All he cared about was connection. Intimacy. No trepidations. No over-thinking. His brain gave over to desire.

"You're one to talk." There was heat in John's eyes now. "Just look at you. All legs and pale skin. Dark curls and cheekbones." He lowered himself, straddling Sherlock, a knee on each side of him. "You and your genius brain in this body. It's almost unfair." John's arse was in Sherlock's lap now and John's words went straight to his cock. He was swelling already. "This is better, isn't it?" he smiled devilishly.

Sherlock held John's waist, fingertips just breaching under the top of his jeans. "You seem to be full of good ideas. Perhaps _you're_ the genius."

John laughed and tangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair, tugging lightly, and oh god. That was perfect. A groan escaped Sherlock's lips unintentionally.

"I see what you mean about the view," John teased, scratching his nails into Sherlock's scalp.

Sherlock's brain was alight, his skin on fire. Everything tingled dizzingly. The weight of John in his lap, John's fingers in his hair. All sensations were gloriously intensified. Sherlock pulled John closer, his palms slipping up under John's shirt, kneading his skin. He could feel John's erection trapped between them as John arched forward.

"Oh, god. Sherlock."

His name on John's lips was more than he could handle. Sherlock nipped John's neck and sucked tenderly, tasting the saltiness and faded cologne. He cupped John's arse, squeezing firmly and John jolted under the touch. By now, Sherlock was painfully erect, the friction of their bodies doing little to relieve him. 

"John..." he quaked, throaty and desperate. 

John pressed his mouth to Sherlock's, kissing him deeply, panting hot breath over his wet lips. "Say it again."

"John..." Sherlock nearly growled the name into his mouth. John's tongue lapped his and he bit softly on Sherlock's bottom lip, scraping his teeth along the pink flesh as he pulled away. 

"Christ," Sherlock moaned again. How could anything feel this good?

"I've got you," John whispered, his smiling lips brushing the shell of Sherlock's ear. John reached down and palmed Sherlock over his own clothes. "Is that alright?" John asked. 

Sherlock, eyes shut in rapture, nodded. Words were fleeting.

"Can I touch you?" John whispered. "Open your eyes and tell me."

Sherlock smiled. His John wanted to be sure. To _know_ Sherlock desired him. To be certain they were on the same page. As if he could desire anything else. Sherlock opened his eyes and took John's face in his hands. 

"Yes. I want this."

John's mouth captured his immediately, his hands searching Sherlock, exploring him. He unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt and tossed it away, his greedy palms back on Sherlock instantly.

"Beautiful. Gorgeous." Sherlock whispered sweet nothings into John's open mouth, hands stroking his back. Sherlock bucked under John, his cock impossibly hard and in need of relief.

"Come on," John coaxed him upward, raising so they could push down Sherlock's trousers and pants to his knees.

Exposed at last, John gripped Sherlock and the world went white. Raw, wanton sounds burst from somewhere deep in Sherlock's chest. John stroked him a few times, rubbing his thumb over the tip languidly. Sherlock hissed and his head hit the back of the sofa with a thud. John kissed and nipped at Sherlock's neck and jawline. His mouth scorched a trail down to Sherlock's nipples, teasing one with his tongue as he continued to stroke Sherlock. He was so far gone in his lust that Sherlock hardly noticed John dropping to the floor between his knees. 

When John's mouth closed over Sherlock, hot and wet and eager, Sherlock groaned loudly and gripped the back of John's head, tugging his hair firmly. John hummed and moaned encouragement and the vibrations of his vocalization around Sherlock's cock tingled and threatened to push him over the edge. Sherlock caressed John's head in appreciation, grunting ugly, animal noises and tried not to buck forward. He'd never been touched this way, rarely even touched himself.

John Watson would be the ruin of him and Sherlock only wanted more. Moth to the flame.

John, apparently a quick study in the art of Sherlock, lapped his tongue at the head of Sherlock's cock a few times. And when Sherlock cried out his name, John nearly swallowed him down, taking in as much of Sherlock's length as he could. He repeated this process a few times, reducing Sherlock to a shameless, quivering bundle of nerves. And then, clever John, wrapped his hand around the base of Sherlock's shaft, stroking in time as he sucked enthusiastically. He used his free hand to knead the inside of Sherlock's thigh and then, unexpectedly, cupped Sherlock's testicles, rolling them gently and releasing them again. It was surprising and pleasing and Sherlock squirmed, his muscles tensing under the tortuous assault on his senses. The pressure in Sherlock was building and he was losing his handle on reality altogether. He released John's hair, gripping the sofa for control as he nearly thrust forcibly down John's throat. 

It was too much. It wasn't enough. It was good and so bad and Sherlock hardly knew where he was anymore. He was all sensation, nerve endings. He only knew his body and John's mouth and hands and that he couldn't last much longer. Trying to get his bearings, Sherlock opened his eyes at last and _oh Christ._ The sight of John's mouth around his swollen, wet cock, John between his thighs, devouring him and John's eyes fastened on his own, hungrily. John stroked himself with his free hand, desperate for his own release. It was far, far too much.

"God, John. I'm about to...oh, fuck," A raspy shout ripped from Sherlock as he came blindingly and John, lamb that he was, took it in stride, swallowing him down as best he could with a mild sputter and cough. 

Out of breath, his world spinning and feeling disembodied, Sherlock basked in the most glorious orgasm he'd ever experienced. He slowly came back online and when a bit of the fog lifted, he caught a glimpse of John, flushed face resting on Sherlock's thigh, still stroking himself slowly. It was positively wicked.

Sherlock reached for John's hands, helping him off the floor.

"Sorry about that." Sherlock kissed him softly, unphased by where John's lips had just been. "I should have warned you sooner." He hadn't meant to cum in John's mouth, although it had been thrilling just the same.

"Shhh," John whispered, taking Sherlock's face in his hands. "It's all fine." 

Sherlock smiled, loving the simple closeness of their bodies nearly as much as John's clever tongue. Sherlock glanced down and gaped at John's cock jutting from his body, thick and leaking pre-cum. It was absolutely pornographic and Sherlock salivated. Unexpected, that. John Watson seemed the exception to every rule Sherlock thought to be true about himself.

Sherlock sat down, slouched low on the sofa and grabbed John's arse, pulling John's hips to his face. John was hovering over Sherlock, straddling him once again but not sitting. His knees were bent, pressing into the furniture and he gripped the back of the sofa, as if he were about to fuck Sherlock's face. And, Sherlock thought with a grin, he basically was.

John's mouth on Sherlock had been magic. An indulgence he'd never imagined. But when Sherlock spread his lips around John's swollen cock, the bitterness of his fluid and the salty, earthiness of John's flesh against his tongue, that was an entirely different beast. The guttural sounds escaping John were as enticing to Sherlock as John blowing him had been, perhaps more so. There was something to be said for giving pleasure, not just receiving it. The power in being the _cause_ of someone's enjoyment. It was not something to which Sherlock was accustomed. 

Sherlock lacked any practical experience in giving head, but then, so had John, he deduced. He'd obviously performed what he'd enjoyed in the past as a recipient. But Sherlock had seen enough pornography (for science, of course) to give him some basics. And in the state they were both in, Sherlock felt confident they could do little that would be displeasing. John's efforts had been exquisite and, if nothing else, Sherlock was also a quick study. 

Sherlock released John from his mouth and stroked him slowly. John would be at the breaking point soon, but Sherlock hoped to stall, draw it out a bit for John. He'd been hard for so long and had put Sherlock first. John's cock and testicles were hanging heavily in Sherlock's face and it felt delightfully obscene. Still stroking John, Sherlock lapped his tongue at the head, teasing, testing. John, above him, face not in view, hissed.

"Christ, Sherlock. Do that again."

 _Mmm, interesting._

Sherlock licked the underside of John's cock slowly from root to tip and then swirled his tongue about John's glans. 

"Fuck..." John, still gripping the back of the sofa, bent his neck and rested the crown of his head against the wall. He was watching Sherlock, hunger in his eyes again. 

Sherlock, mimicking John, cupped his testicles and rolled them in his palm, his other hand still working John's cock in long strokes. Feeling brave and mostly curious, Sherlock sucked gently on one of John's balls. John cried out at the sensation and bit his lip as if trying to stifle his moans. 

Sherlock kissed and licked his way back to John's cock and chided him. "No need to keep quiet. I want to hear everything, John Watson."

"God... Sherlock." Another hoarse cry. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply, cataloging John's tantalizing scent. Musk and sweat and... a hint of strawberries. His sister's soap again, Sherlock deduced, grinning. John bucked a bit and glanced down apologetically, pleadingly. He was desperate now.

"Come for me, John." 

Sherlock grasped one of John's hands and forced it to the back of his own head. John adjusted slightly, bracing himself on the sofa with just one hand, and his face and shoulder shoved against the wall. John gripped Sherlock's hair, entwining his fingers in the dark, sweat-dampened curls and pushed his cock forward into Sherlock's mouth. 

Sherlock loved John this way. Towering over him. Taking him. John using Sherlock to get himself off. John was gentle and considerate, his thrusts shallow and steady. Sherlock gripped the base of John's cock and stroked in time, sucking and panting as John picked up the pace a bit. Wet, crude noises rang out as John's cock slipped in and out of Sherlock's open mouth. Sounds of passion. Of John inside Sherlock, fucking his mouth in earnest now, though not roughly. Sherlock slipped his free hand over the one John had in his hair, guiding John. Pushing his own head forward, showing John his limits, how much he could handle. Because Sherlock honestly wanted more and wanted John to absolutely lose control.

A moment later John's body tensed and Sherlock, knowing he was about to come at any moment, gave him one last deep suction and then tried to relaxed his throat a bit more.

"Oh fuck, Sherlock. That's it. God..."

John cried out and tightened his grip in Sherlock's hair as he pulsed and throbbed. Sherlock winced, groaning around John's cock, loving that little bit of glorious pain. John untangled his trembling fingers and pet Sherlock's head softly, soothingly, brushing the slick curls out of his eyes as Sherlock tried to swallow down John's cum. John slowly pulled back, only the tip of him on Sherlock's lips now. He hadn't really been prepared for the taste or volume, but muddled through and forced it down. Sherlock smiled up at John, and John sagged, sinking down onto Sherlock's lap.

"Jesus Christ."

"Sherlock Holmes," he corrected. 

John laughed breathlessly and pressed his forehead to Sherlock's.

"That was amazing. You. You are amazing," John panted.

Sherlock said nothing, but stroked John's thighs and grinned blissfully. He was floating. Even with John in his lap, Sherlock was weightless and airy.

John ducked low and kissed Sherlock, rubbing and kneading his jaw and neck. He was worried he'd been too rough, obviously.

"You alright?" he asked, concern in his eyes.

Sherlock returned his kisses. "I have never been more alright."

John seemed satisfied with that response and lazily slid off Sherlock's lap and onto the sofa.

\---

Sherlock had always imagined the part after sex. He imagined awkward glances and uncomfortable silences. But not so with John Watson. 

They had done a cursory clean up, pulled on their pants back on, and John fetched them water to rehydrate with. After, John lied on the sofa, pulling Sherlock on top of him. Sherlock's head rested on John's chest and the thumping of John's heart lulled him. Sherlock relished in the sensation of John combing fingers through his unkempt mop and stroking his back idly. They listened to the radio for a long while. There was silence, but it was comfortable. Companionable. Filled with intermittent soft kisses and sighs of contentment. Their feet tapped in tune and John's head swayed minutely with the music. Eventually, after what felt like blissful hours of mere _being together_ , John broke the silence.

"I never want this night to end."

"Mmm," Sherlock agreed, drawing small nondescript figures on John's chest.

John pressed lips onto Sherlock's head and inhaled deeply. He kept his mouth nestled in Sherlock's curls and whispered, lips grazing his scalp.

"You should know, I wanted this."

Sherlock lifted his head to gaze at John.

"I just. I don't want you to think it was the pill." John's eyebrows were furrowed in seriousness. "I already wanted this. Wanted you."

Sherlock swallowed deeply. He _had_ considered that John's advances were fueled only by the recreational circumstances.

"Yesterday, the way you looked at me in the locker room. Even when we first met. You've been like a drug to me from the start."

Sherlock looked away and pressed his cheek against John's heart again. "That's true for me, as well," he confessed.

John kissed the top of his head again and resumed stroking Sherlock's back.

"I've never been with a boy." John spoke softly into Sherlock's hair again.

"I know."

John tensed. "Was it that bad?"

"What? No. No." Sherlock looked up at him again. "I only meant... well, you only spoke about girls." Sherlock smiled reassuringly.

"Ah. Right." John relaxed a bit.

"I've never been with _anyone_ ," Sherlock mumbled.

"Really?" John sounded surprised.

"Yes."

John hugged Sherlock a little tighter than before, protectively, and kissed his forehead. Sherlock felt claimed, but not like property. He had been returned to the missing half of a whole to which he hadn't known he belonged. He fit somewhere, as if by design.

_Yours. John Watson. I'm yours._

"One day you can tell me where you learned such skills," John chuckled softly.

"My brother has a... collection... to which he believes I am not privy. Thinks he's so clever. You only have to look for the cake crumbs to locate it."

John chuckled again, bouncing Sherlock gently as his chest moved.

"Though, admittedly, observation and participation were two entirely different experiences."

"Well, you were fantastic." It was an honest tone, and Sherlock was warmed by the idea that John believed him to be fantastic at anything. "What will the end be like, Sherlock? When we come down?"

"A lot like this. More fatigue though." Sherlock pressed soft, silent kisses on John's hand. "We'll take a hot shower. You'll like it."

"And then?"

Sherlock considered John's expression. He thought John might mean something else. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in response, studying him.

"Will we just go home?" John asked.

 _Oh._ Sherlock smiled.

"I'd hoped you would stay with me, here..." _(always)_

John grinned and pulled Sherlock further up his body. They kissed for a while, a slow slide of lips and tongue. It was calm, cool, with no real heat. Just comfort and affection.

"It doesn't have to end just yet, you know," Sherlock breathed out between kisses.

"Oh?" John smiled into his lips.

"I have two more pills. We can further extend this adventure."

John sighed contentedly.

"I haven't even shown you all the little tricks to heightening the experience."

"What we just did? _That_ wasn't the trick?" 

"Just one of many. Wanna see some more?" Sherlock grinned devilishly.

"Oh god, yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note about my characterizations of John and Sherlock. I hope they aren't too off. I've personally taken this drug on multiple occasions, but it was several years ago now. The experience I described was challenging. Capturing the idea of euphoria with words doesn't come easy to me. At any rate, this particular drug has a socializing affect, increases the desire for intimacy, and reduces anxieties to almost nothing. As such, John and Sherlock will be mostly free of inhibition, unlike the John and Sherlock we know and love. Plus they are younger and carry less of the weight of the world on their shoulders at this juncture.
> 
> PS: I'm not condoning the use of any drugs. I quit because I got to a point where I was unable to feel happy without them, and I didn't want to live that way. Others may have different experiences, that's just mine. 
> 
> xo DFOBS


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **"Sherlock was an expert in one subject especially: John Watson."**

John knew two things to be certain in his life. One, most bad days could be salvaged with a good meal and a cuppa. And two, Sherlock Holmes was a genius. 

He wasn't just intelligent, mind you. Sherlock's brilliance extended past his brain. His fingers, his mouth, his tongue... all his parts, really. For all his books and deductions and seemingly endless lists of facts, Sherlock was an expert in one subject especially: John Watson. 

He could transform John into a shuddering, whimpering mass almost instantly. When they showered together, steam fogging the room and hot water scorching their slippery bodies, Sherlock had dropped to his knees and brought John to orgasm within minutes. After, they scrubbed away the beautiful filth of their bodies. Remnants of a time John would look back on and smile fondly. And under the punishing waters beating down over them, Sherlock whispered in his ear that he wanted John to fuck him, and he thought he might come again from the words alone.

Thus, the shower long over and their limbs now tangled happily, they enjoyed once again the slow climb to ecstasy as the second pills worked their magic. Sherlock was sat in John's lap in a comfy chair near the fireplace. They were naked, flaccid, and facing each other, Sherlock's long legs wrapped about John's waist. There was no fever between them as they cuddled, simply basking in the oncoming roll of the high. Honestly, John was grateful for the drug at the moment, as his anxiety subsided. He had penetrated girls before, but not anally, and he'd be devastated if he hurt Sherlock.

"Some pain is to be expected, John," Sherlock soothed, kissing his temple.

"Right. I just. I want you to enjoy it."

"I trust you," Sherlock whispered softly.

John nuzzled Sherlock's neck. He knew that was true. Sherlock _did_ trust John, and John trusted Sherlock. John had never felt as intertwined with another person, as engaged. When he said Sherlock was like a drug, it wasn't mere hyperbole. John was addicted to this dark-haired enigma. This boy who smiled with sadness in his eyes and laughed with hesitancy in his voice. But in this room, in this flat, they were relaxed, open, honest. They had each other and this night and this little thing that had helped tear down the walls.

John pressed his cheek to Sherlock's and held him tighter. Their bodies couldn't be close enough. He gingerly kissed the freckles on Sherlock's neck and the hollow of his throat until he was rewarded with delighted smiles. 

"You don't have to be afraid, John."

He held Sherlock's shoulders, his thumbs kneading into the skin.

"We'll take it slow," John pressed their foreheads together. "Though we might need -"

"Not a problem." Sherlock climbed off John and disappeared downstairs. When he returned, a fiendish grin gracing his lips, he brought with him a bottle of lubricant. 

John laughed. "Where did you -"

"I did say they were newlyweds."

"Ah, of course." John had sort of forgotten he didn't actually live here with Sherlock. It was someone else's abandoned flats. Reality was truly a distance away. Strange how this little place on Baker Street felt like home. "Come here, you." He grabbed Sherlock's wrists and kissed him passionately. Sherlock practically melted into him, pliant and soft, still stark naked. He was once again in John's lap, the bottle now on the floor. A promise of things to come.

Enduring gentle kisses, petting and nuzzling, it continued on luxuriously for an unknown time. It felt like forever, but in the best sense. The caressing didn't get stale or tiresome. John could easily spend his days this way, Sherlock clinging to him, their skin aglow in soft candlelight, vibrations of some unrecognized music thrumming to their very cores. 

Their high reached the pinnacle and leveled off, no longer an ascent but rather an illustrious and constant buzz to keep them dizzyingly happy for the next few hours. Sherlock's pupils swallowed his irises almost whole and John found he missed the color of those eyes already. They gently rocked side to side, diminutive dancing movements to songs playing in their very souls. It was transcendent. The slide of their naked bodies, the friction of skin on skin. John took the time to simply appreciate Sherlock's form. They had been hurried, frenzied and burning for relief the first time. Now John could worship him the way he wanted. The way Sherlock deserved.

John lavished Sherlock with affection and attention, no rushing. The rush would come soon enough. The heat, the passion. For now they were simply adrift. John took long moments to kiss and caress and massage Sherlock. He wanted to know what Sherlock enjoyed most, his sensitive areas. _Behind his knees. His neck, just under the jawline. Nipples._ John ticked them off one by one in his head as he tasted, teased, experimented, taking a page out of Sherlock's book. Had Sherlock been himself, John mused he might be proud.

John had never considered the male physique in a sexual way. But Sherlock was ethereal, otherworldly. John was punch-drunk on the notion that he'd discovered this diamond in the rough. How could no one appreciate Sherlock as he did? Brilliant and beautiful. Sherlock thought himself broken. Thought the world saw him as broken. Completely daft, that. John knew Sherlock Holmes didn't need fixing. 

"Gorgeous," John whispered, hot breaths in his ear. It was possible Sherlock couldn't hear him anymore. He seemed lost in sensation as John scratched gentle nails down his back over and over. 

John smoothed hands up Sherlock's thighs and met with that darkened patch of hair in between. He traced it with his thumb, gliding lightly down from Sherlock's naval until his hand reached Sherlock's cock, then he traced back up, slowly. Sherlock inhaled sharply and his eyes rolled back in his head.

"I just love you this way," John smiled, lips against Sherlock's neck. 

Since meeting, Sherlock ran circles around John, his brain and mouth rapid-firing at a bewildering pace. So clever and sharp and in control. Yet now, Sherlock wrapped around him, hardening before John's eyes and near incoherent, John felt like the genius. That he could reduce Sherlock to a begging, mumbling state of being with his mouth and hands. It was empowering and a bit astonishing. And completely arousing. 

"Please, John," Sherlock moaned shakily. The build up was becoming tortuous apparently. Sherlock was swelling and John had ignored his cock entirely until now.

Feeling devilish, John moved his hands _away_ from Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock nuzzled his face into John's neck, rewarding him with a small noise of disappointment. John laughed softly and Sherlock snaked his hands down to John's cock for a few, quick strokes. John hissed at the sudden contact and his cock began to throb. Sherlock grinned arrogantly at him. 

What an impatient brat.

John stood quickly, Sherlock's legs still wrapped around his waist, turned round and flipped him over. Sherlock was now seated in the chair and John stood up, dwarfing him, imposing and daring him to complain. Instead, Sherlock's eyes darkened, glittering. He liked a little roughness, then. Okay. Noted.

John cupped Sherlock's head and swooped low, taking his mouth and bruising it with his own. 

"Mmphf. Oh, god," Sherlock gasped into the kiss. 

John tugged his curls, crushing their faces together, and nipped Sherlock's bottom lip. The sounds of Sherlock's excitement only furthered his own and John, caught up in the fervor, growled and gripped Sherlock, stroking his cock slowly. Sherlock swelled and his mouth fell open. He threw his head back and clawed at the chair, little squirming noises escaping him as he gave over to the throws of passion. 

"That's it," John purred. "For me, Sherlock. This is only for me." John continued stroking him, a sudden urge to claim, to take, washing over him. Sherlock had never been with anyone else. No one had seen him this way. No one made him shiver and quake and near sobbing for more. 

John dropped to his knees between Sherlock's and glanced up at him. Sherlock chewed on his lip in anticipation and John grinned impishly before swallowing him down. 

"Christ!" Sherlock pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and John came up for air and grabbed his wrists, pinning them down in the chair. 

"No. I want to see you," John rasped before dragging his tongue on the inside of Sherlock's thigh and then biting him softly for good measure. Sherlock's leg twitched, the muscles jumping under his skin.

John released Sherlock's wrists and continued stroking his cock, faster than before. He licked at the head, glistening with pre-cum, as his hand worked Sherlock's shaft. Sherlock's hand went to John's head immediately, scratching nails into his scalp. John's skin tingled, the ecstasy intensifying his pleasure.

"Please, John."

"Say it," John rumbled. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you inside me."

_Oh god._

John grabbed the nearby bottle of lube and exhaled deeply, shakily. He looked up at Sherlock who met him with pleading, desperate eyes that inflamed John, rushing blood to his cock. His skin was on fire and his brain screaming _mine, mine, mine._ John grabbed Sherlock behind the knees, pulling his bottom half forward so that Sherlock's back was on the seat of the chair. John bent Sherlock's legs, folding him in half, and spreading him wide. Sherlock was exposed, holding his own legs up and apart, his heavy, erect cock laying on his stomach. John's erection ached in sympathy and arousal. 

With Sherlock's arse now at the edge of the chair, John still on his knees, he marveled at the beautifully obscene tableau before him. He poured some of the lubricant onto his index finger and rested his other hand on Sherlock's arse cheek, giving it a squeeze.

"Alright?" 

"Yes. God, please," Sherlock begged again.

John pressed his wet finger to Sherlock's pucker, circling it gently, spreading the lubricant around. Sherlock hissed above him.

"Ah. God."

Feeling a bit concerned, John pulled back and squeezed another, larger, dollop of lubricant, coating his digits thickly. Better safe than sorry. 

"Try to relax," John whispered, pushing his finger in slowly, that thick ring of muscle holding him securely. Sherlock breathed heavily, visibly forcing himself to accept John's invasion. 

"That's it," he soothed, still pushing forward, making tiny circling motions. He kissed Sherlock's thigh, reassuring him. 

John took his time, kissing and stroking and working diligently until he thought Sherlock could handle a second finger. It would all be worth it in the end.

"Gorgeous, Sherlock." John twisted his finger slightly and began to pull out. "Think you can take more?"

Sherlock was quivering, still holding his legs apart, and nodded, mumbling an agreement.

Breaching two fingers was a bit more difficult, took a little more time, three even more so, and by the end Sherlock was debauched. His forehead glistened, his cock was leaking onto his stomach, and his breath was staggering. John's erection throbbed near painfully. He was desperate to be inside his Sherlock. 

"Please, John. Please," Sherlock's knuckles were white where he was gripping his legs. "Fuck me."

Sherlock's pleas sent John over the edge. The filthy obscenity rolling through his body and twitching his cock in anticipation. Sliding his fingers out, John grabbed the lube once more and slicked himself, the coolness of the liquid almost tingling, heightened by his drugged state. John didn't break eye contact with Sherlock and licked his lips instinctively. The heat between them was palpable and Sherlock watched him with absolute hunger.

"Come here, you." John pulled him to standing and kissed Sherlock, their tongues sliding messily over one another. 

John gripped Sherlock's cock, stroking him quickly a few times with his still-lubed fingers and Sherlock cried out, pressing his forehead to John's. It was breathtaking to see him losing control. John gripped Sherlock's hips and guided him to kneeling in the seat cushion, thighs spread, and John bent him forward over the back of the chair. He pressed his cock to the cleft of Sherlock's arse and pushed forward, slowly at first. Sherlock's body resisted initially, and John leaned down to place encouraging kisses on his back as he continued on. Sherlock made a strangled noise and groaned, and was near shouting when the head of John's cock at last entered him. 

"Oh Christ, John." 

John stroked his back and hips and tried to keep his own wits about him, but _fucking hell_ that was the most intense experience. The heat inside Sherlock enveloped him and he was so tight around his cock. It was like nothing else. No girl had ever felt this way. And no one's pleasure had ever mattered this much. John was precisely where he wanted to be and with exactly whom. It was perfect.

John began with shallow thrusts and Sherlock gripped the chair, breathing heavily, little erotic noises escaping him. 

"Sherlock, god." John groaned as he picked up the pace a bit. He gripped an arm of the chair with one hand and Sherlock's shoulder with the other, bracing himself as best he could to thrust quicker, deeper. 

"Harder, John. Yes," Sherlock grunted, his voice strained. 

_Mine, mine, mine._

John's brain was on fire again. Sherlock's body was incredible around his cock, and he could hardly think anymore. He just _fucked._ Animal and primal and claiming. 

"I'm going to make you come, Sherlock Holmes." 

John pulled out completely, reaching around to stroke Sherlock's cock and then plunging back in deeply. Sherlock lunged forward, crumpling under the intensity, his thighs trembling. John fell with him, both of them now with knees in the seat cushion, crammed against the back of the chair, and John grinding punishingly down into Sherlock. 

"You're gorgeous. Amazing, Sherlock."

John continued stroking Sherlock as he plunged again and again, deeply, one hand grabbing a handful of Sherlock's hair and the other gripped tightly on Sherlock's cock. 

"Ah, god, John!"

Sherlock practically sobbed John's name in adulation. It was so much all at once. The exquisite warmth of Sherlock's hole clenching tightly around John, Sherlock gasping for breath and singing out praises of worship. John was drowning in the glory of fucking the most beautiful creature and every touch, every sensation was amplified by the ongoing high of the MDMA. He couldn't hold out much longer. He released Sherlock, no longer able to keep a steady pace of stroking him and thrusting. John's movements became erratic, wild and trembling.

"Sherlock, I, oh fuck." John cried out, one hand still tugging on Sherlock's curls, the other now gripping the back of the chair, fingers entwined with Sherlock's.

One last, punishing thrust and John was spent, heavy and out of breath and pulsing inside Sherlock. His eyes closed, forehead pressed to Sherlock's damp back as he attempted to see straight again, his entire world doubled and dizzied. 

Movement disrupted his waves of glowing contentment. Sherlock, with John still inside him, was now stroking himself desperately, sweaty head pressed into his own forearm on the back of the chair. John reached around, gripping Sherlock's cock for him and Sherlock tensed instantly, John's name on his lips. His climax came soon after and his entire body jerked, muscles clenching gloriously around John's cock again.

They still, calming, breathing, gradually awakening from the dense lust in which they had been swamped. John pulled out slowly, climbing off of Sherlock and Sherlock sat back on his heels, knees still in the chair. 

John fetched them a damp flannel and a glass of water, both of which Sherlock accepted gratefully. The afterglow was heavenly, even with the sticky mess that comes as a package deal. John sat in the opposite chair, a soft, dim candle still burning nearby. Music, long-forgotten played on the stereo, no longer drowned out by the sounds of their indulgence. Sherlock, now cleaned and re-hydrated watched John with interest.

"Alright?" John asked.

A smile teased at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, and he glanced down at his own feet. John wondered at that. After all their exposure and vulnerability and intimacy, that Sherlock could still be a bit insecure. John waved him over, sitting Sherlock between his knees, his back rested on John's stomach. They sat in the familiar comfortable, silence again, John's arms about Sherlock and Sherlock studying John's fingers next to his own. Occasionally John placed a chaste kiss on Sherlock's neck or temple or shoulder as they rode out the remaining high together in bliss.

Both boys clung together, quiet and reflective. Countless songs began, ended, time ticking on, and still neither spoke. One by one, candles burned out, the room darkening down to a pinpoint. Only the light of the window and one candle remained. The hum of the ecstasy waned slowly as well, mimicking the oncoming darkness. John wondered what tomorrow would bring. And the next day. Their heads clearer, would Sherlock still want him? Would they continue pursuing this blossoming togetherness?

"It's like home, here. Is that odd?"

"Not odd. Sentimental," Sherlock grinned. "Though I confess I may feel the same way."

John tightened his arms around Sherlock, pulling him closer. "You were amazing tonight. Absolutely brilliant," he whispered.

"I'm afraid you are easily impressed, John."

"I mean it, you -"

"Besides," Sherlock interjected with seriousness, "it's you that should receive the praise."

"How about _we_ , Sherlock? We together, not just me or just you. We were brilliant."

"Together," Sherlock repeated softly, rubbing tiny circles into John's palm. 

"There is a _we_ now, isn't there?"

Sherlock nestled in closer against John and squeezed his fingers.

"As I told you before, there is no one that sees me as you do."

John smiled, relief flooding him. "And as I said, everyone else is absolutely blind."

Sherlock pressed his lips to the back of John's palm and held it there momentarily before speaking again. "Besides, I'll be needing an assistant with medical training if I'm to be the world's only consulting detective."

"Assistant?" John asked, amused. 

"Colleague?"

"Partner," John smiled, kissing Sherlock on the shoulder.

A moment of quiet passed as Sherlock considered. Finally, a fond smile crept across his face.

"Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Yes. I believe I like the sound of that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Fan Creations Inspired by "Chemical Bonding"**  
> [X](http://buttplugsforjen.tumblr.com/post/83616727231/an-edit-i-was-inspired-to-make-all-work-done-on) an edit by [BooksOverPeople](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BooksOverPeople/pseuds/BooksOverPeople)
> 
>    
> Well, that's it! Thank you to anyone who read! I hope it was enjoyable!  
> Feel free to check out my Sherlock [tumblr.](http://deathfrisbeeofbakerstreet.tumblr.com/) I do meta analyses and love to chat! Plus, I'm happy to receive Sherlock writing prompts!
> 
> xo DFOBS


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